Storm on Lava Creek: A season in Yellowstonehttp://www.hcn.org/issues/44.16/storm-on-lava-creek-a-season-in-yellowstone
The power of a thunderstorm thrills a newcomer to Yellowstone National Park.By the second mile of my third hike during my first season in Yellowstone, thunder booms near. I wonder if we'll have time to finish the hike.

• • •

Ten days ago, my best friend, Alison, and I began our new summer jobs as Xanterra lodging reservation agents at Mammoth Hot Springs, after a two-day drive in her parents' Ford Explorer with its Minnesota plates. Every day since then has been a discovery.

In training, we've learned the stand-outs that make Yellowstone unique in the world: the first national park, the most diverse concentration of geothermal features, the tallest active geyser. For a couple of college students who have spent their first 20 years in the Midwest, this is a wonderland of superlatives. We love this big new Western country, we love Yellowstone, and we love that we have 10 whole weeks to enjoy it. Contract end-date: August 16.

• • •

Alison and I have joined a few co-workers for a short evening hike after work. We're on the Lava Creek trail, which drops along the base of Mount Everts east of Mammoth. By the second mile, white curtains of rain band the view of Terrace Mountain and sweep across the canyon to the east. The air is thick and lush, filled with the feeling that something's about to break. We decide to keep hiking in spite of the weather and maintain a good pace.

When the knees of my jeans begin to suds up with soap bubbles -- answering my curiosity about the quality of the employees' washing machines -- I burst into laughter.

"I love this place!" I shout. We stop to study the confluence where Lava Creek joins the Gardner River, not far below our trail. My co-workers are smiling, too, but I don't know if they are charged as I am charged -- with an energy greater than the charge of lightning overhead.

I have never hiked in a serious thunderstorm, never experienced any of this: The stream rush of the Gardner River, running high with spring and turbid with runoff, 50 feet down a steep bank. The weighted clutch of earth at my feet. The contrast of the cold, raw rainwater grabbing the salt of my sweat and slipping between my warm lips. The hammering wind gusts, which seem to come from every direction, tugging my hair and the juniper limbs. The icy shots of raindrops pelting my scalp. The scents blooming around us as water meets a naturally arid landscape: the spice of wet sagebrush brewed with the syrup-thick aroma of black cottonwoods, seasoned by juniper. Dense sweetness grips the air as firmly as mud clings to our boots.

My clothes and hair and skin are soon saturated. My companions move quickly, aware of the risks of hiking in wet clothes, on slick trails, along steep banks, above fast rivers. But I don't think of any risks. Instead, I remember John Muir in the Sierra: If I were alone, I think, I might find a tree to climb and ride out the storm in its branches, the way he did.

When the storm calms and the rain becomes drizzle, a chill starts to seep into my shoulders from my wet fleece. A little water on the trail has become a lot of water on the trail -- running along the earth at our feet, collecting as opaque pools in bison tracks. Drawn from high above us, rivulets of water as thick as chocolate milk course across the trail and draw my eyes to the Gardner River.

I start to understand the land textures I have noticed, from evening hikes up the Old Gardiner Road at Mammoth, on the mountain along whose base we now walk. From the highest ridges of Mount Everts, broad draws of erosion cut down the mountain like Vs narrowing to slender waists. Below, earth collects in mounds that expand toward the base of the slope. Above, drawdown; below, buildup.

That night, I flood my journal with joy for place and grief that two weeks of our season have already passed. All the swooning hyperbole and intoxicating danger of first love.

"There are hourglasses on the side of Mt. Everts," I write. Summer erodes under my feet.

Lauren Koshere, a freelance writer in Washington, D.C., is completing a nonfiction manuscript about her time as a seasonal employee in Yellowstone.

]]>No publisherCommunitiesEssays2012/09/28 02:00:00 GMT-6ArticleLearning a landscape by tracking its rivershttp://www.hcn.org/issues/44.10/learning-a-landscape-by-tracking-its-rivers
A newcomer to Montana tries to understand the state's place in the West by figuring where its rivers flow.I follow a blue thread on my atlas. The line labeled "Clark Fork" appears to end at Lake Pend Oreille. To confirm it, I turn from my atlas to my computer and consult Google, Wikipedia, the Clark Fork Coalition's website. I feel guilty; it seems like cheating to use a computer screen to learn about the water that flows two blocks from my apartment.

I try to recall how I learned about the rivers in Wisconsin, but I've forgotten the details. I don't remember when I learned into what the Namekagon flows or where the Amnicon empties. I take it for granted that, in my home place, I just know.

In Missoula, I learn new names: Rattlesnake, Sentinel, Clark Fork. But naming places is not entirely satisfying; naming them is not the same as knowing them. Naming them is not familiarity -- familiarity like family.

Place-sensitivity: I don't feel in place unless I understand my place. I didn't expect to be disoriented in this way. I remind myself, you've only been here a month.

In July, one month before I move to Missoula, my dad and I make a campfire on a spit of sand at the mouth of the Amnicon River in northern Wisconsin. We've been here many times. Before us, Lake Superior swells into beach pebbles. Sunset oranges flush the sky behind Duluth. The Amnicon flexes like a muscle where it joins the Lake.

Our fire's glow intensifies against settling darkness. A group of young people emerges on the river's opposite bank. One of them shouts that they are from a local summer camp. They build a fire, and a counselor leads a discussion to orient the campers from other states.

"What's out in front of us?" she asks. "Lake Superior." The campers know something about the area.

"What's that line of orange lights to our west?"

"Duluth."

"What's that river next to us?"

The campers shift on their logs, no answer.

The counselor enunciates the name slowly: "Am-ni-con. That's the Amnicon River. Have any of you ever been here before?"

Someone must ask what she means by "here."

"Right here. Right at this beach. This is the only place in the world where the Amnicon River meets Lake Superior."

Trudging along switchbacks on my fourth hike up Mount Sentinel, I stop to catch my breath more often than usual. I have a cold. I am tired. The three-quarter mile trail to Missoula's famous "M" wilts me. When I reach the concrete letter on the mountain, I crouch down, feet to earth, knees bent. I call on deep energy to catch my breath. My nose is running, and my cheeks are hot. Pressure drives dull pain into my temples. My head is swollen, too heavy to hold up. I start to fall forward, and I lean into my hands for balance.

I hold Mount Sentinel for a minute, two minutes, before my balance returns. I can lift my head and keep it raised. I could be waking from sleep. I become aware of the scene around me, sound by sound. Wind rushes. Crickets trill. Dry grasses rustle. Gravel crunches under me as I rise and steady my footing.

As I study Missoula from above, my gaze falls on a river I recognize. The Clark Fork -- bold blue, reflecting clear sky -- moves down below. I have not seen where it meets Lake Pend Oreille, but I know that even as it's flowing here, it's going there.

I'm flowing here, too. This is the only place in the world where I'm standing, right now -- the only place in the world where the Clark Fork flows through Missoula, Mont.

Lauren Koshere, a freelance writer based in Washington, D.C., is a 2012 graduate of the environmental studies M.S. program at the University of Montana.